


Adam, Sweet Adam

by TinyWinterSnake



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1990s, Canon Divergence - Captain Marvel, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Piercings, Short & Sweet, There's really no big plot here I just got in a gay mood and wanted to write something cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 17:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21461560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyWinterSnake/pseuds/TinyWinterSnake
Summary: Carol isn't in the military, isn't dead, and celebrates those two things by going out, getting a definitely-not-regulation piercing with Maria, and engaging in a bit of mutual pining.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Adam, Sweet Adam

**Author's Note:**

> This definitely isn't serious, intense, or beta-read. I got the idea while reading about the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, and listening to my favorite wlw songs. 
> 
> The title is a reference to Belly Button Blues by Cleopatrick.

Carol felt lucky: her time with the Kree was not marked by an absence of flashy, backlit technology, so returning to Earth is not difficult, not in terms of leaving the Internet behind in the time of Bulletin Board Systems and coming back to the World Wide Web. The difficult part is the people. Maria, sweet Maria, who thought her dead, who had a daughter Carol remembered in theory but who was actually much more blurry, a daughter who was currently sitting between Carol’s legs having her hair detangled. The detangling process comes to mind easier than any memories of a little girl laughing.

Maria, for her part, sits opposite them, typing away on a computer and looking more excited with every click of her mouse.

“We can do whatever we want now, Carol, we have to think big,” she says as she scrolls down the latest fashion trends. They’re trying to capitalize on lost time, time lost even before Carol died, time lost when they enlisted and sold their souls to the military industrial complex. They’d lost more than time, more than fashion trends, but it felt better to start with things they could actually do something about. 

So Carol sits patiently, listens to Maria tell her about Brandy, tells her she would look amazing with braids, and wonders what else she’s missed. She wonders if it’s her place to ask, can’t decide, so she doesn’t. 

Monica goes to bed and they still haven’t decided on what to do, so Carol moves to sit on the other couch. Their knees knock often, their thighs press together, but she tells herself that it’s because they have to sit so close to see the computer screen. It doesn’t matter that Maria covers her mouth when she smiles, something she knows for a fact only happens when she’s nervous, because who wouldn’t be nervous when faced with, for all intents and purposes, the undead.

“I always wanted to be a punk,” she whispers quietly into Maria’s neck, hiding her face in the intimacy of the position they’ve gravitated to over time, her head resting on one slender shoulder. It’s not the most comfortable, there’s definitely a bone digging into her cheek, but she doesn’t move because the lump grounds her in the moment, reminds her that she isn’t dreaming because even in her wildest dreams she couldn’t quite conjure up the comfort-discomfort dichotomy that stems from being curled around someone you love. Maria laughs, gets a pinch to the side for it, but it’s justified.

“I’m serious,” Carol protests, “remember how I was so excited to shave my head because I thought I’d finally have an excuse, and then I found out that women don’t actually have to shave their heads?” 

“Would've found out before then if you bothered to read anything they sent you,” Maria teases back gently. Carol flaps a hand at her dismissively, smiles widely, receives a wider smile in return and her insides twist. 

“Let’s get a piercing,” she says quietly, as though Monica will burst in from the hallway at any moment and beg for earrings. Some girl in her class has them, and it doesn’t matter that Maria had promised she could get her ears pierced on her twelfth birthday, apparently one year is a long time when it comes to turnover rates for middle school trends. Carol understands, a bit, because the military hadn’t allowed any sort of body jewelry and trying to count the days until she got out had been impossible.

“Where?” Maria asks suspiciously, narrowing her eyes, and, okay, that’s probably warranted.

“Bellybutton?”

“I am surprisingly okay with that,” she says slowly, chewing at her bottom lip, and Carol aches to swipe her thumb across it, pull it from between her teeth, kiss the marks away from the tender skin.

“So-” she begins just as slowly, keeps her impulses to herself, wets her own lips instead “bellybuttons?”

‘Bellybuttons,” Maria confirms, grin spreading across her face, eyes dropping briefly. It’s almost enough for Carol to lean forward, make a move, see where Maria looks then. Almost. 

\--

The next morning they pack a grumbling Monica onto the school bus, kiss both of her cheeks just to embarrass her, do it twice because she wipes it off the first time. Then they pack themselves into a truck that’s old enough to reasonably be called vintage, restored by hand by Maria, apparently, and set off to the most reasonably-priced and beginner-friendly looking tattoo parlor in town. It had good reviews posted on its website and, importantly, left the bad ones up too, so they figured it was probably the best one to go to. 

So they drive slowly, chat quickly, sing loudly, and Carol props her feet up on the dashboard like she’d always wanted. Maria slams on the brakes, forcing her to fold into the space between the glove compartment and the seat, then laughs so hard she wheezes and cries, too busy struggling to breathe to help Carol up, and they end up on the side of the road for ten minutes getting looks from people who stare as they drive past. Carol gives as good as she gets though, so once she’s finally out she hugs a truce with a still-giggling Maria and shoves a fistful of dirt down the back of her pants.

They make it to the parlor eventually, somewhat dirtier than when they left the house, and shove and push and trip each other all the way up to the front door. They fill out their forms, pick out matching jewelry because they’re secretly thirteen years old, and argue about who has better abs while they lay next to each other. Somewhat next to each other. In separate rooms, but the rooms don’t have doors, just strange bead curtains, so it’s not even at a decibel level that could be called yelling if they communicate between rooms. Probably. The piercers seem to think it’s amusing, and no one tells them to stop, so they drag them into the conversation and Carol wins the competition, but only by a small margin and only because she’s flexing. 

The needles go through smoothly. Compared to how they’d talked each other up the night before it feels like nothing, and they say as much as they stand side by side admiring their jewelry. They actually had two: a pair of heavier, dangling jewelry featuring small airplanes, but they couldn’t swap them out for a few months so for now they had simple curved barbells with small gems in an alarming and revolting shade of lime. They’d hated it, then loved it when they thought about how disgusted and jealous Monica would be. So they thank their piercers, tip double what the reviews recommended because no one deserves to deal with them for free, and leave the shop much the way they came in. 

“We’re really out now,” Carol says softly when they’ve settled back into the car. Somehow, getting this piercing feels more like getting out than dying did. 

“Yeah,” Maria replies quietly, and she sounds strange and small and overwhelmed in this moment, so Carol turns to face her, to comfort her. 

Maria kisses her, clumsy and sweet and sudden, to the backdrop of some cheesy pop song on the radio, and in that moment, they’re just two young women kissing in a truck in the summer of ‘95. 


End file.
